The Empty Air

The night air has ceased to smell of anything but cold. No trees, no decaying leaves, no grass, no damp scents it. The cold has destroyed every fragrant emanation. There is only the air itself, sharp, heavy, and clear. The stars are sharper, too, now that the moon has waned a bit. There have been stiff breezes all night, lasting several minutes at a time. I hear them approach, as the pines begin to whisper, and then there is an onrushing sound, as from a conch shell, and the rattling scuttle of desiccated leaves tumbling along the cold pavement. A bird disturbed from its sleep flutters briefly in a bush, and small whorls of wind send leaves spinning about my feet. Then the wind subsides for a while, and I hear it fade southward, and silence returns to the odorless night.

Colorful December

Declining, the sun ensconces itself among thin clouds which it proceeds to burnish silver and gold. The green and copper needles of the ponderosas glitter as the trees rustle and sway, excited by gusty breezes. The mottled gold and brown carpet of mulberry leaves shifts a bit, its tattered ends flying off to join the throng of oak leaves now clattering up the street. A band of light and shadows, now almost horizontal, decorates my wall. A slight moderation of the temperature has induced me to fling open the windows and allow a bracing December freshness to flood the room. Unimpeded, the chirps and squawks and whistles of birds reach me, and there is a flapping of wings. The sound of a rake scraping asphalt is there, too, and the soft fluff of the pine needles it gathers and tumbles into a growing pile. If the wind dies down, maybe the scent of their burning will enliven the evening air, and I will see the flicker of their flames shine from deepening dusk as the bright day fades.